


Ferryman

by Wereallalittlemadhere



Series: The Ferryman Series [1]
Category: The Dark Pictures: Man of Medan (Video Game)
Genre: Could this be classed as Gaslighting?, Everybody Lives Ending, Just a conversation between you and him, No Romance, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24839500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wereallalittlemadhere/pseuds/Wereallalittlemadhere
Summary: You had done it, you had survived the horror that was the S.S Ourang Medan. You joined your friends on the deck of the Duke of Milan, ready to get away. Then you're not there. You're in his repository and he is far from happy.
Series: The Ferryman Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094963
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	Ferryman

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a while now and I'm now happy that it's finally written. If you guys like it, please let me know and I may continue to flesh out the concept after the new game is released. Thanks to SpOOkworm for proofreading.

The Duke of Milan sped over choppy waves, heading for the region of French Polynesia. Fliss pushed the boat as fast as it could go, determined to put as much water between you and the death trap that was once the S.S Ourang Medan. With the cold air on your face, you allowed yourself to lay back and relax against the warm wood of the deck, closing your eyes against the blinding light of the morning sun. The waves rocked you to sleep.

Then the warmth offered by the sun was no longer there, there was no movement beneath you, and you could not smell the salt as the waves sprayed onto the deck. You opened your eyes. The first sight to greet you was a large skylight high above you, through which the night sky was visible. The moon loomed above, the light cascading down to mildly illuminate the details in the ceiling. The silver light melted into a warm orange glow which surrounded your peripheral. Instead of lying on a deck, you felt that you were slumped in a chair, your neck bent at an uncomfortable angle against a hard wooden back. You closed your eyes and, bracing your hands against the arms of the chair, pushed yourself into an upright position. You groaned in pain as the muscles in your body ached in protest at the movement. How long had you been sat in that position? That didn’t seem right. You can’t have been sat in that position. You were running around a ship for hours, weren’t you?

Opening your eyes you were faced with a middle aged man. You weren’t startled by his presence as you thought you should have been. You remembered being sat across the old Victorian desk from him before, although those moments seemed too good to be true as you were running through the swirling yellow mists and corpse ridden corridors of the Medan. You had pegged your previous meetings with the man who had introduced himself simply as ‘The Curator’ as dreams, as your exhausted body slumped against the cold metal of the ship in some hidden corner, hiding from the pirates and demons that ran wild through the decaying body of the ship. You took in his appearance. He was illuminated by the moonlight that streamed in through the windows to the left of the ‘repository’, as he had called it, along with the orange glow of the candles on the desk. The bookshelves behind him were filled with various volumes of differing sizes and colour. Somewhere to your right you could hear the crackling and popping of a fire, but you could not feel any of its warmth, the room instead taking on a cold feel with the presence of the moonlight and the displeased face of its host. You looked away from his face to the skull on the desk, preferring to stare into the empty hollows of the object than face him. There was music playing. It was barely distinguishable over the sounds of the fire, but it was there. You listened carefully. You recognised it but could not place it.

“It’s Mozart’s ‘Lacrimosa’.” The sound of his voice startled you, the deepness of it causing your muscles to tremor until you reluctantly met his stare again. He looked the same as in your dreams, finely dressed, clean shaven and sporting a haircut which you thought would not suit a man his age, but it did. Although, you had your suspicions that he was much older than he appeared to be. He was clearly displeased, his thin lips curling inward until there was nothing but a severe line. His eyes narrowed slightly, the crows feet at the corners tightening. He let out a half-hearted chuckle, taking pleasure in your discomfort as you shifted in the chair to better face him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, but I would hate for you to strain yourself, especially under the circumstances. You have been through so much.” His tone was one usually reserved when talking to children; children you were trying not to lose your patience with. He shifted, crossing his knees and clasping his hands. You tried not to squirm under his stare. You wondered what had happened. He had seemed so pleasant before, kind enough to offer you clues to your environment on the Medan, but his manner had shifted completely now. He was cold and mocking. 

“Congratulations. All your charges are still breathing and that’s something, I suppose.” He lent forward to rest his arms on the desk, bringing his face closer to yours. The closer he came, the more his face was obscured in shadows due to the proximity of the candle. Yet, even with half his face shrouded in darkness, his left eye still caught the light. It was unsettling, “Things became a little intense, but you kept your nerve. Well done you!” He threw himself back in his chair, bringing a hand up to run over the lines of his lips. He was looking out the window now, refusing to acknowledge you. 

You hadn’t expected him to shout his praise and your ears rang, blocking out the sounds of the fire accompanied by Mozart, which seemed to be playing on a never-ending loop. Inhaling deeply, you tried to calm your nerves. The repository smelled musty, most likely due to the seemingly hundreds of books stored there. Many of which you thought had not been touched in a long time. It wasn’t unpleasant. Under that was the scent of smoke from the fire along with something spicy, maybe tobacco or whiskey? You couldn’t place it exactly, but you were certain the last scent was from the Curator. You cleared your throat to gain his attention, but still he ignored you. 

“I thought you’d be happy.” You said. You were surprised you could get the words out at all; you didn’t even think you could speak whilst in the repository. There had been no need to, the Curator had always seemed to know what you were thinking. Your voice was enough to gain his attention, only slightly. He gazed at you from the corner of his eye, but he never answered you. The silence stretched on. The two of you were reluctant to talk to one another; you had clearly upset him, but you could not fathom why, and he was trying your patience. You turned your focus to the swirling mist of dust that was caught in the moonlight. You followed it’s trail down to the desk which was spotless. You noted no matter how much dust was seemingly in the air, every surface you could see held no trace of it. It was otherworldly, the repository, and it filled you with unease at how everything was created to cater to him. The grand bookshelves, the elaborate desk, the antique globe, the skull and the never melting wax, all of which were untainted by the dust swirling around you. It was all for show. This was your dream; how could you feel so out of control?

The ache was disappearing from your muscles and you felt strong enough to crane your neck to glance around the room. The roaring fire to your right drew your attention. It was homed in a marble fireplace which looked like it had been taken from a country estate. Movement above the fire caught your eye. There, in the portrait above the mantle, were the friends you had come to know so well, sailing into the horizon aboard the Duke. You were not among them. Your mouth fell open in shock, your hands grasped the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white as you twisted your body to better see the portrait. The Duke grew smaller and smaller as it faded into the distance, and then it was gone. The scene of a sun slowly ascending over choppy waters was replaced with a stormy sky and rough waves as they pounded against the metal hull of the S.S Ourang Medan at its final resting place. There was a low rumbling chuckle which soon became a booming laugh, echoing in the cavernous space. Turning, you saw the Curator was facing you once more. His face the epitome of joy; but worst kind, joy at the expense of you.

“Did you really think you were there?” Your voice failed you in your confusion to piece everything together. You were there, you had experienced first-hand the horror of the Medan. You felt the rust water under your bare feet, the bitter smell of the Manchurian Gold and heard the echoes of screams from both past and present. You had been lying of the deck of the Duke of Milan not five minutes ago, “The mind is a powerful thing, it can adapt so quickly to any situation in order to survive. Sometimes too well. You were clearly so immersed in the stories of our intrepid adventurers that you did not even realise you weren’t one of them.” 

You slammed your hands on the desk. Pain shot up your arms, yet the objects on the desk did not falter from the force. It was like you weren’t even in the repository, let alone the deck of the Milan.

“No I was there! I have to be, this is a-“

“Dream? You think this,” He stood from his chair, sweeping his arms out wide as he gestured to the room before he turned and leaned on the back of the chair, “Is all a dream?” His voice had dropped to just above a whisper. That tone struck something within you. As implausible as it all felt, you knew he was telling the truth. The repository was real, your presence did not affect it at all, but that did not mean it did not exist. The room was not designed to react to you, it was all for him. This was his creation, not the makings of your dream world. In your previous musings you deduced correctly, it was otherworldly, but on a level you could not even begin to fathom. You looked at him questioningly, to which he answered with nothing but a smug smile of his lips. He delighted in the knowledge you had not the faintest idea what was going on.

“Shall I explain it for you?” 

You nodded. The Curator did not begin straight away, instead taking his time to make himself comfortable. He sat down in his chair once more and reached into one of the desk drawers. He pulled out a decanter of dark amber liquid and a glass, the smell of whiskey assaulted you as he poured himself two fingers worth. He relaxed as he took a deep, slow sip. Your throat felt dry and you longed for the drink, hoping it would ease the tension that had built up since the revelation you were never among the group of the Milan. 

“Sorry, but I don’t think whiskey is a suitable drink for you right now. Although, I might offer you a glass once I have told you all you need to know.” He finished his drink with a satisfied sigh and leaned forward on the desk, his shoulders and facial expression relaxing into the state he was in when you had first met.

“For reasons unbeknownst even to me, I was given the opportunity to share my collection of stories with someone. Before you ask, I did not pick you. You were the hand that fate dealt me. Now I suppose I could have shared my story with you in some more traditional manner, but I was curious to see how you would react when you found yourself in some rather stressful situations, faced with making choices that could mean life or death.” He gestured to the repository once more, to the books that lined the walls, “All these books represent stories that have happened, and stories that have yet to take place.” He picked up the book on his desk, bound in dark leather and embellished with the silver outline of a boat, the Medan, “The story of the Medan has just happened. Were this any normal situation I would have allowed the story to play out naturally and write down what would have occurred. However, with you here, I decided to see how an outside influence would affect the choices of those on board. I offered you snippets of information to see if that would affect your judgement, and it did. You had the choice to fight the hooded figure in cargo hold two, but you did not and what a choice that was! Imagine if you had fought back with the knife, you would have killed poor Brad! Oh sorry, my mistake. Fliss, would have killed Brad.”

You were about to protest that he had got it right the first time, but then you distinctly remembered Fliss holding the knife.

“I can see the cogs turning in that little head of yours. I told you, the mind is a powerful thing. It would have to be for you to influence all those people.”

“But I was there! I nearly stabbed Brad!”

“No, that was not you. That was you influencing Fliss. You helped Fliss make the choice to not stab the hooded figure, saving Brad’s life. You convinced Conrad to confront the hag, saving his life. Every decision you made saved their lives.” He sat back once more, clearly not happy but not as displeased as before, “Did you not find it odd how you seemingly switched from one group to another? Did it not occur to you that you were guiding these people?”

You hadn’t thought anything of it at the time but now that he mentioned it, you couldn’t believe it had not seemed strange that one minute you were with Fliss and Brad and the next you were with Alex and Julia. How were you able to go from one group to another in no time at all? 

“It’s all starting to fall into place isn’t it? Let me give you the final piece. You weren’t among them as you thought, because if you were, how come they didn’t say your name even once?” He was right. Not one of them acknowledged you were there, because they didn’t know you were there. You furrowed your brows at him.

“So if I wasn’t there, how did I influence them? How could I be there but not?”

“You’ve been sitting in that chair since Brad stepped aboard the Duke of Milan and you have not left it since. That painting above the mantle acted as a gateway, one look and you were out like a light. Your body was here but your mind was aboard the Duke of Milan and, later, the Medan. I chose who I wanted you to guide at different times, hence why you kept switching. Your mind tethered with each of our adventurers, meaning you felt everything they did. You felt what they touched, what they smelled, you felt the exhaustion in their bodies and your mind interpreted it as your own experiences. It was a level of immersion I have never encountered before.” 

You were shocked, for lack of a better word. In a matter of moments everything you thought real had been crushed. Your mind had been tampered with, all for the entertainment of the Curator. You felt your eyes tear up, but you refused to let them fall. You threw your hands up in frustration.

“Did you get everything you wanted? Did you write it all down?” Your voice broke. He remained calm, watching as you unravelled.

“I did. It wasn’t the outcome I was hoping for, but I wrote it down, nonetheless. That is my job after all.”

“Why, what outcome were you hoping for?” He chuckled once more, waving a finger at you.

“I’m sure you can figure that one out on your own. Think very hard.” You didn’t want to. You were tired, angry and you wanted to do nothing more than slap that smug expression off his face; but you didn’t. Instead you breathed deeply to calm yourself, and closing your eyes, thought back to your experiences on the Medan. You remember the diving incident, being boarded by the pirates and tied up. At one moment you looked through the porthole in the door as Fliss was taken away. Conrad was planning his escape and out the corner of your eye there’s a well-dressed man in a long trench coat and bowler hat, his face you are already well acquainted with. You remembered that Conrad nearly died in his escape attempt. When Brad jumped for the netting holding cargo just as the gangway was collapsing, the Curator was there out the corner of your eye again. Brad would have died had you not convinced Fliss into not attacking him. Then it clicked, the Curator was only present to witness first-hand the events in which one of those aboard the Medan could die.

Your mouth fell open in realisation. Your heart beat violently against your ribcage and your palms became sweaty. He was smirking at you, pleased you had figured it out by yourself.

“You were hoping they’d die?” You couldn’t believe it, even though you knew it to be true.

“That outcome would have been more preferable, to me at least, but what is done is done. They all live, story over.” He slapped the cover of the book before picking it up and moving to place it back on the shelf. He lingered for a moment before pulling another one from the stacks. As he sat down again you saw that it was bound in the same dark leather as the previous book, but instead of a ship on the front, it was a strange stick figure. He placed it on the desk. Your voice wobbled before you could get the words out, cold flashing over your body as your mind realised what this meant. The fear washed over you.

“Is that-“

“Another story to be written, and you are going to help me again.”

“Why? I’m not going to give you the outcome you want. I’ll always try to save them.”

“Do you really think so? Do you not think you were simply lucky aboard the S.S Ourang Medan?”

“I don’t get it! Why do you want them to die?” You sounded hysterical, your voice becoming a high pitched shriek, but the Curator did not falter. He calmly reached into one of his drawers and pulled out another glass. Taking the decanter he poured two fingers worth into each glass before sliding one to you. You stared at it for a while, before reaching out your trembling hand to pick it up. You looked to the Curator who raised his glass in a toast before knocking back the drink. You didn’t toast, but you did throw it all back, not letting it linger on your tongue. The whiskey left a burning trail down your throat and you coughed as you set the glass back down on the desk, the Curator opening the book to the first blank page as he grabbed his pen from the ink well. The whiskey gave you the resolve to speak again. You spoke strong and even, your tone conveying you wanted him to answer your question this time instead of plying you with alcohol.

“Why do you want them to die?” He didn’t look up.

“Oh I’m sure you will figure that out soon enough.”

“Why do you need me to influence them?” This time he met your gaze.

“In my line of work, I need someone to help me achieve my desirable outcome. I believe you were sent to me for that very reason. I will not force you into influencing our new adventurers to make decisions that will cost them their lives, but you will influence them to make decisions they normally would not. If they live, good for you. If they die, good for me. Now, look at the painting for me.” You slowly turned your head to the painting above the mantle. The S.S Ourang Medan was no longer there. Instead there was a dimly lit road, to the right of which was a blue sign that was slowly rusting. It was the sign for a town.

“Little Hope?” You questioned.

“Yes Little Hope, the setting for out next story. Now, let us begin.” 

Then the world went dark.


End file.
